


Longing

by sadbibarnes



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19134160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadbibarnes/pseuds/sadbibarnes
Summary: Bucky writes a letter, experiences a memory, and has a dream.





	Longing

With rain falling around him, Sgt. James Barnes pulls out a pen and paper - he thinks only of home and what he left behind when his letter came. He attempted to keep the paper dry, but his small tent awning provided little protection from the cold rain in central France. But the memory of those he left behind keeps him warm. He listens for enemy footfalls but hears nothing. He shakes his head, waiting for serenity to come, for the memory of New York to come back, worries he’s been gone too long for it to, but it does. 

_From their tiny apartment near the docks, Bucky can see the lights of Rockefeller Center’s tree lighting up midtown. The radiator makes a hissing noise as water is pushed through it, warming the space a degree. Steam rises from coffee mugs on the counter, music comes from the small radio in the living room. Steve stirs on the couch, worn out from the cold and the city itself. Bucky turns down the radio, begging for a few more quiet moments - long enough to pretend everything is normal, everything is fine, nothing is going to change._

_The moment doesn’t last._

_“Buck?” Steve’s small voice comes from the couch, Bucky’s back still turned from him, “C’mere.”_

_Bucky picks up the mugs from the counter and crosses the room in three strides. He can see Steve’s shivers through the dim light of the rising sun._

_It breaks his heart._

_“What’s up kid?” Bucky tries to stay casual, pretend it’s all fine, “You cold?”_

_“No,” Steve lies, “You?”_

_“Never.”_

Bucky shakes his head - that wasn’t the memory he wanted. Thanks so much, brain. He picks up his pen again, ready to write finally. 

.oOo. 

My Love Dear Steve, 

November ??, 1943

I know it’s late, but I’ve been all over creation - I’ve heard more accents than I could have ever imagined, but nothing too new for me. Some new languages too - fighting with the Free French, we’ve met some men from North Africa - the traditions are new, but they pray like us I guess. The way they talk about women is… weird. But, again, that’s not new. Men talk about their girls like they talk about their horses - like they’re things to use and spend money on and then leave, and the men from North Africa are no different. 

I can’t imagine what they would say to if I started talking about you - the way the sun hits your skin or the way fairy floss tastes secondhand. But, here it’s dangerous to talk about women let alone men. We’re always hiding, ducking, crawling - a man could get comfortable with someone and the next day they’re gone.

Thankfully, I have practice at that. I have watched you die many times over - the rasp of your breath every attack you had, the crunch of knuckles against your nose in every stupid fight you picked, the scent of your blood every time I cleaned you up, the warmth of a fever that never quite broke. 

I’ve not gotten attached. I don’t like France or Italy or England near as much as I like New York. 

I’ll be home soon, I promise. 

Longingly,   
Bucky

.oOo. 

Bucky sealed the letter, addressed it - S. Rogers for safety, stuck a stamp on it - upside down, a code, and tucked it away until he could put it in the mailbag. He put a piece of his heart in the letter and hoped that Steve would hold it tightly. He walked back into the tent, curled onto a cot, and pretended that he was anywhere but here. 

.oOo.

_The sun shines through the dirty window of their room, turning the small man next to Bucky into the closest approximation of a fairy that he would allow. The bed they shared was small enough that their shoulders bumped in the night and when they woke up they were curled around each other. They always disentangled themselves wordlessly - Bucky leaving for work, Steve for school. But, there were some mornings, when neither of them had anywhere to be when they would linger. Innocent enough that, if they were younger, Sarah wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but intimate enough that it kept the cold out. Bucky read books aloud, Steve drew Bucky, and when they finally got hungry enough they would pick up, throw on shirts over their boxers - no regard as to who’s it was - get toast and coffee, and go back._

_Days passed like that, slow and quiet. Steve would fall asleep sometimes, his head tipped gently onto Bucky’s shoulder, breath rising and falling with Bucky’s voice. It never crossed his mind to stop reading though. Flash Gordon, HG Wells, Mary Shelley - Steve heard them all, Bucky read them all. And then Steve would wake up. The spell would break.  
They’d get up. Put on their clothes, and go about their day. Bucky would turn the radio on, Steve would push more water through the radiator and pull a blanket onto the couch. _

_When Bucky looks back, he wonders how he missed it in the early days of their friendship - sidelong glances, handshakes that lasted just a moment too long, sharing seats when there were more than enough. Easily enough explained away with friendship, the world not prepared for them yet._

_The first time it happens, Bucky doesn’t know what to do. The coughing, the spasms, and the shivers. Bucky panics. Scoops Steve up off the street and runs home, crashing up the stairs and through the door. Drops him on the couch._

_“What do I do?!” Bucky whisper-yells, “Wha-?!”_

_“Drawer.” Bucky is up in a flash, and back, finding the tiny contraption. But Steve knows what to do. Shows Bucky how to help._

.oOo. 

Bucky is shaken awake by the sound of shouts, “Get your ass up, Barnes, let’s go!” 

He can’t shake the feeling of loss by being woken. As he climbs a tree and readies his rifle, he looks up at the sky, praying to make it through another day. He looks down, peeks at the picture Steve drew of him and pulls the trigger. Again, again. 

But the sound doesn’t scare away the longing for a small bed in New York.


End file.
